They trudged on, their only consolation being that they apparently were no longer pursued.
“Can’t be much farther,” panted Marty, “until we’re in Mississippi. But how are we goin’ to know?”
“First folks we meet that don’t try to rob and kill us, we’ll ask.”
It was desolate country. They followed a deep, clear creek that flowed from the north. Humans, especially farmers and ranchers, settled along such streams. The shack, when they came upon it, was slab-sided, with a shake roof. It had weathered to a pewter gray, and seemed deserted. There was a pitiful excuse for a barn. It was as gray and weather-beaten as the shack, and a gable end of its shake roof had fallen in. They paused, listening. There was the scrape of a shovel on rock. Somebody was digging. Following the sound, they came upon a little ridge behind the shack. Beneath an old poplar tree was a grassed-over mound that could only be a grave. Beside it was a growing mountain of dirt. A second grave was being dug.
“Hello,” said Ten. “We’re friendly.”
A head appeared. Shaggy brown hair; sweaty, freckled face; Ten judged him barely out of his teens, if that. He hoisted himself out of the hole and sat on the edge of it, his feet dangling. He had deep brown eyes, and he rubbed sweat from them with the backs of his hands. He wore no shirt, and his patched trousers had once been Confederate gray.
“If you ain’t friends,” he said, “you a couple of days late. I got nothin’ left. It’s been took in the name of the Confederacy. For the cause.”
His laugh was bitter.
“We’re not here to rob you,” said Ten. “We lost our horses to the same cause. But they paid. We left a couple of ’em for buzzard bait. You fixin’ to plant one of ’em in that hole?”
“No,” he sighed. “I wisht that’s all I had to do. This is for my mama. She died early this mornin’, and I’m makin’ a place for her beside Daddy.”
“Sorry,” said Ten. “We showed up at a bad time. Before we move on, can you tell us where we are? Are we still in Louisiana?”
“Mississippi. Barely across the line, maybe six or seven mile south of a little place called McComb. I ain’t got much to offer, but you’re welcome to stay and eat. After I do what’s…got to be done.”
“We’re obliged,” said Ten. “Why don’t you let us finish here?”
“It’s deep enough,” the boy said.
“We’ve come a long way,” said Ten, “mostly afoot. I reckon we’ll go to the creek for a spell.”
He knew they were leaving him alone with his grief. They could do no more. Without a word he turned and went into the shack. The sun was down and the water was cold, but they stripped off their dusty, sweaty clothes and waded in. It was still light enough for them to see him step out the door with his blanket-wrapped burden and vanish around the corner of the old shack. Finally they got out and stood shivering, waiting for some of the water to dry before getting back into their clothes. They sat on the steps at the front of the shack until their host returned, carrying the shovel. With a sigh, he leaned against the rickety porch. Ten got up.
“I’m Tenatse Chisholm. Ten to my friends. My pardner is Marty Brand.”
“John Wesley Fedavo,” he said, shaking their hands. “Mama named me that, hopin’ I’d make somethin’ of myself. You can see it didn’t work. Just call me Wes.”
“You said you was robbed,” said Marty. “Sounds like the same renegades we tangled with. Five of ’em?”
“That’s all I saw,” said Wes. “They wanted horses, guns, and grub. Told ’em I had no gun. I got a Navy Colt, but no shells. They took the mule I rode back from the war. I kept ’em out of the house by tellin’ ’em Mama was down with the smallpox. She wasn’t. Just old and tired. Come on in.”
The squalid little shack had but three rooms. Only one, obviously the bedroom, had a door, and it was closed. The furniture, little as there was, had been homemade. In one corner was a bundle of blankets, probably their host’s bed. From the third room, the kitchen, came the torturous aroma of something cooking.
“Bring a pair of chairs with you,” said Wes, “and have a seat at the table. We was down to one old rooster, so I put him out of his misery yesterday. Boiled him all night, just to make Mama some chicken soup. She died without ever tastin’ it.”
He paused, swallowing hard. He took the big pot off the stove and set it on the not-too-sturdy table. From a shelf he took a big porcelain bowl with chipped edges, a blue granite pan with much of the granite flaked off, and an iron skillet.
“Ya’ll take the bowls,” he said, “and I’ll make do with the skillet. I ain’t too well fixed for comp’ny. Pitch in; that ol’ bird’s tender as he’ll ever be. Ain’t no coffee. Not a damn thing to drink but creek water, but there’s a plenty of that.”
Wes ate very little, watching them. Ten and Marty ate every morsel, and then drank the broth.
“If I live to be a hundred,” said Marty, “I reckon I’ll never enjoy anything as much as I did that old rooster. I ain’t much of a drinkin’ man, but if I could get my hands on a bottle right now, I’d drink to his memory.”
Ten and Wes laughed, easing the tension and lifting the gloom. Then Ten realized they had told the young man nothing about themselves, and etiquette didn’t allow him to question them. Briefly, Ten told him of their intention to raise a herd in Texas and trail it to Indian Territory. He concluded on a light note.
“Truth is, the girl I aim to marry is in New Orleans. We took the steamboat from Fort Smith, aimin’ to buy horses in Texas, plannin’ to go to Texas from there. The girl’s daddy purely hates my guts. He lined up half a dozen coyotes to gun us down, and we shot a couple of ’em. We left town with a posse on our trail.”
“Then run into a bunch of renegade Rebs,” said Wes, “and was left afoot.”
“That’s it,” said Ten. “All we hoped to do was get out of Louisiana, buy some horses, and head for Texas. This little town of McComb, do they have the telegraph?”
“Lord, no. Didn’t have it ’fore the war. I doubt there’s a workin’ telegraph or uncut wire anywhere in Mississippi. Men are still limpin’ back from the battlefields. Nobody knows what’s goin’ to happen. While Mama was alive and sick, I couldn’t even think of leavin’ here. But now…”
“If you can shoot, rope, and ride,” said Ten, “there’s a place for you in our outfit. I’ll stake you to a horse, a saddle, a gun, and grub. When we sell the herd, I’ll pay you forty dollars a month, startin’ now.”
“I can shoot and ride,” said Wes, “but I’ll have to be honest with you. I’ve been a farmer, not a cowboy. I’ll need some work with a rope.”
“By the time you get to Texas,” said Ten, “you’ll have the feel of it.”
“Then let’s go to Texas,” said Wes. “The sooner the better.”
11
With a blanket apiece, they slept on the floor of the poor shack. They were awake at first light, with nothing for breakfast but creek water.
“We need horses and grub,” said Ten. “I know it’s hard times, right on the heels of the war. What’s likely to happen if we show up in this little town, trying to buy what we need? Any Union soldiers there?”
“Not yet,” said Wes, “but there’s talk there will be. What we’re able to buy is goin’ to depend on what folks is willin’ to sell, what they can spare, and I doubt it’ll be much. This is farmin’ country, and that’s all anybody knows. I doubt there’s a horse for sale anywhere in Mississippi. Probably no mules either. Them that’s got livestock ain’t likely to sell. They’ll be hopin’ to get somethin’ planted, so’s they can eat.”
“We’ll be headin’ west,” said Marty. “What’s the nearest town in that direction, and how far is it?”
“I’d say Natchez. Seventy-five mile, at least, and nothin’ in between.”
“We might as well see what McComb has to offer,” said Ten. “Wes, since we’re strangers, I reckon you’d better go in without us. Take this gold, and if nothing else, get us some grub
. Whatever there is. When you ask about horses or mules, be sure to mention that renegades took your mule.”
Wes looked at the five double eagles in his hand, and he looked at Ten.
“I doubt there’s this much cash money in all of Mississippi. How much do you want me to spend?”
“All of it,” said Ten, “if there’s horses or mules to be had. Otherwise, as much as it takes for grub. We can hoof it from here to Natchez if we have to, but not on empty bellies.”
Ten and Marty sat on the edge of the porch and watched him out of sight.
“I reckon that’s the most money he’s seen at one time in his life,” said Marty. “Suppose he don’t come back?”
“He will,” said Ten, “unless somebody kills him. If he starts asking around for horses and mules, somebody’s likely to wonder what he aims to use for money. We should have let him take a loaded Colt with him.”
“You’re right,” said Marty. “That old Navy Colt he’s wearin’ won’t be much help, him without shells.”
The sun was noon-high when Wes returned. He was afoot, with a gunnysack over his shoulder. He was without the Colt, holster, and belt. He returned the five double eagles to Ten.
“No horses and no mules,” he said. “Got us a side of bacon and a sack of cornmeal. It was the best I could do. I traded the Navy Colt. I knew nobody had any money to make change, and no way was I goin’ to pay twenty dollars for this little bit of grub. Besides, there’s some in town I’d not want knowin’ I had money, or knew anybody that did.”
“Here,” said Ten. “Use this Henry until we’re able to replace the Colt.”
There was little in the shack worth taking. They each took a blanket, and Wes an old daguerreotype of his parents.
“I know it’s heavy,” said Marty, “but let’s take the iron skillet. We got meal, and with bacon grease we can have corn pone.”
“Be handy for fryin’ fish too,” said Wes. “I got hooks and lines.”
“Let’s go,” said Ten.
“Go ahead,” said Wes, “and I’ll catch up. I may never come this way again, and I—I got some good-byes to say.”
Ten and Marty started toward the westering sun. Wes soon caught up, and they continued until the sun was about to dip out of sight. When they came to a willow-lined creek, Ten called a halt.
“Likely there’s nobody in these, woods but us,” he said, “but we can’t gamble on it. We’ll take supper early and douse the fire before dark.”
“I believe I could put away that side of bacon by myself,” said Wes. “Why don’t I see if there’s fish in this creek?”
“Great idea,” said Marty. “What do you aim to use for bait?”
“Bacon rind. Come on; I got a bunch of hooks and plenty of line.”
Wes cut a pair of slender hickory saplings for poles, trimmed away a few limbs and cut off the tops. From his pocket he took a little leather bag, and from the bag several little wooden spools. The line was wrapped around the spool like sewing thread and was held tight by the barb of the hook that bit into one end of the wooden spool.
“Bought me a bunch of hooks before the war,” said Wes, “and hid ’em away. When I got home, these hooks an’ lines was all I had left.”
They found a portion of the creek that was so deep they couldn’t see the bottom. Sunlight crept through the overhanging willows to dapple the water with freckles of gold. There they dropped their hooks, and Marty caught the first trout, a wriggling beauty as large as his hand. Seconds later Wes hooked another, and he grinned at Marty as he spoke.
“These ol’ boys ain’t never had bacon rind before, I reckon.”
“I’ve had rank bacon,” said Marty, “but never a rank trout. Maybe we’d oughta just chunk the bacon and keep the rind.”
Ten already had a small fire going. He joined them at the creek and began cleaning the fish they’d caught.
“Call it quits with a dozen,” Ten said. “That’s all we’ll have time to fry before dark.”
Once the trout had been caught and cleaned, Wes dunked them in the creek, one at a time. On a trio of stones Ten balanced the old iron skillet over the coals. Wes hacked off some bacon fat, and as it sizzled in the skillet, he began dunking the raw fish into the sack of cornmeal. The skillet would take only three trout at a time, and while a second panful was frying, the three hungry travelers ate the first batch.
“Southern style,” said Wes through a mouthful of fish. “Give a Reb a little bacon, some cornmeal, a line and a hook, and he’ll eat like a king.”
Ten and Marty could only agree. They put out the fire, rolled in their blankets and slept. For breakfast they broiled strips of bacon over the fire, carefully saving the rind for bait.
“If I ain’t bein’ too nosy,” said Wes, “I got a question.”
“Go ahead,” said Ten. “I hope I have an answer.”
“Once we get to Natchez, we’ll still be in Mississippi. Suppose we can’t find horses or mules there? It must be near two hundred miles across southern Louisiana to the nearest town in Texas.”
“I’m counting on finding mounts in Natchez,” said Ten. “There’s an old ex-mountain man who’s built a racetrack there, and while I don’t know him, I know Maynard Herndon, a horse-tradin’ nephew of his. I’m gambling that Herndon’s uncle will either sell us some horses or send us to somebody who can. This nephew of his lives in New Orleans, but sometimes takes a boat to Natchez to help with the horses during the Saturday race.”
Weary and footsore, they reached Natchez on Friday, October 13. They found a rooming house where nobody looked at them twice and no questions were asked. In a café near the river, not far from the steamboat landing, they had steak, onions, fried potatoes, dried apple pie, and coffee.
“Lord,” said Wes reverently, “this is the first coffee I’ve had in five years. I’d forgot what it was like.”
“There’s boats out of St. Louis all the time,” said Ten, “and we ought to find a general store or trading post with some of the things we need. Like Levi’s pants, shirts, socks, and a Colt for Wes.”
While they were able to find the clothes, they found no weapons and no ammunition. There were newspapers from St. Louis and New Orleans. Ten got a New Orleans paper, almost a week old.
“Let’s get back to our room,” said Ten. “In the morning we’ll go looking for this racetrack, and the old-timer it belongs to.”
In the privacy of their room Ten stretched out on the bed, and on page two of the paper found what he was looking for. The headline, which ran across two columns, read: JOHN MATHEWSON’S KILLER BELIEVED SLAIN. Quickly he read the story, and passed the paper to Wes and Marty.
“No wonder that posse was so eager,” said Marty. “It wasn’t a posse, but a mob, and there was a thousand-dollar price on you, dead or alive. It says your two companions was unidentified, but the grateful folks in New Orleans raised another five hundred dollars apiece for them.”
“None of that surprises me,” said Ten. “What does surprise me is that I’m accused of shotgunning John Mathewson on September second. I was in Indian Territory then, and can prove it.”
“My God,” said Marty, “it’s lucky for us we’re both dead, with all the charges they’ve laid on you. They’re sayin’ that even after you’d killed Mathewson, you was breakin’ into his office to get the evidence he supposedly had against you. You’re gettin’ the blame for all the smuggling and black-marketing that took place during the war.”
“I’ve been a busy little Injun,” said Ten. “Been smuggling and black-marketing since I was twelve, using the St. Louis Academy for a hideout. But what really burns my hide is the way they’ve accused me of going back to Mathewson’s office to steal the evidence against me, offering not a shred of proof. Somebody’s put words into this newspaper writer’s mouth, and I’m almighty sure I know who.”
“Somethin’ else they don’t explain,” said Marty. “They say your robbery was foiled by six ‘concerned citizens,’ two of whom were killed. Th
ey ain’t sayin’ how them six coyotes just happened to be there waitin’ for you at eight o’clock in the morning, or why they all just happened to be armed with repeatin’ rifles.”
“I’m lost,” said Wes. “I thought this was over a girl, that her daddy—”
“My God!” cried Ten, coming off the bed. “Priscilla will have a copy of this. Old LeBeau, that no-account, yellow coyote—”
With that, he was out the door.
“By now,” said Marty, “the girl likely thinks Ten’s dead, thanks to her crazy old daddy. I reckon Ten’s gone to send her a telegram, if it ain’t too late.”
“Where is she?”
“For all Ten knows, at her grandma’s in Louisville.”
Marty explained the complicated situation as best he could.
“The last part makes sense,” said Wes. “The three renegades that took your horses done you a favor. They was taken for you, gunned down, and the bunch that was after your hides is countin’ you dead.”
“That’s how it looks,” said Marty, “but this ain’t over. This stubborn damn Injun ain’t even eighteen, but let him make up his mind, and you don’t change him. It’s like tryin’ to head a buffalo stampede. Sooner or later, this little gal’s got to go home, and I ain’t all that sure ol’ Ten can survive another trip to New Orleans. But I’m sure of one thing: if she’s there, then our Injun pard will be goin’. I never seen one so young fall so hard.”
The subject of their conversation returned, only slightly less agitated.
“I sent her a telegram,” he said, “and asked for an answer. I’ll call for it tomorrow, after we see about the horses.”
Neither of his friends said anything, but their thoughts and misgivings were identical. Suppose the girl didn’t answer?
The following morning they went in search of the racetrack, and had no trouble finding it. A quarter-mile stretch had been cleared off along the west bank of the Mississippi. There was a barn, a corral, and a shack. A bay and a roan picked at some hay at one end of the corral, while a nicker from the barn attested to the presence of other horses. While the track had been cleared of bushes and trees, it hosted a waist-high crop of ragweed and yellow-crowned goldenrod.
The Chisholm Trail Page 12
